


Lust In Translation

by FiaMac



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Political AU, President!Arthur, Smuffy Goodness, kind of cracky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2018-12-27 07:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12076251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: President Arthur Levine really should be paying more attention to the Very Important Presidential Stuff going on, but all he can focus on is that voice in his ear saying the most deliciously wrong things.





	1. What?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm throwing this up before I overthink it. As usual, Slack wackiness is to blame for everything.

Arthur holds still while the staffer fiddles with his headset, trying for all the world to look like a respectable leader and not a sulky teenager. It hurts his ear and he feels ridiculous with this thing attached to his head.

Embarrassingly, he’s the only one being fitted with a headset for the President of Vanuatu’s opening speech. Because, somehow, he’s the one world leader present that doesn’t speak fluent French. And maybe it’s just his imagination, but he’s pretty sure that cluster of reporters over there are sneering at him, like he’s just another dumb American blundering his way through the world refusing to speak anything but English.

Arthur has an urge to tell everyone within hearing distance that he fluently speaks Japanese _and_ Italian, fuck you very much, along with a passing acquaintance with Dutch. But he doesn’t. He has to be “presidential” or whatever, and why did he think he could do this?

Running a first-world nation is leagues and fathoms beyond his governorship of a half-forgotten state filled with people that already agreed with everything he wanted to do. Governors don’t have to travel halfway across the world to schmooze with other world leaders that keep treating him like some adorable kid brother.

And they don’t have to wear these fucking headsets.

“How’s that, Mr. President?”

Awkward, stupid looking, and kind of painful. “It’s fine, thank you Yusuf.”

“Can we test the audio?” Yusuf calls into his own Bluetooth radio, connecting with some unseen tech wizard.

A buzz of static fills Arthur’s ear, causing him to wince. “Shi—uh, I mean… can we turn the volume down on this thing?”

“Sure.” Yusuf reaches over and adjust something that Arthur can’t see. “Better?”

“Too much, I think. I can’t hear anything.”

More fiddling. “How about now?”

“I’m not…” But just then, Arthur catches the tail-end of a rich voice speaking softly in his ear.

_“…lo there, beautiful.”_

“What?” he blurts.

“What?” Yusuf asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “Nothing. I think we’re good.” But his attention isn’t on Yusuf or the flurry of activity around him. He’s busy listening to the voice that has started to ramble on.

_“Oh, I think you can hear me, now, can’t you? How interesting. Won’t this be fun? Just you and I having ourselves a little chat.”_

Arthur nods absently when Yusuf guides him to his seat for the speech. The Prime Minister of India gives him a strange look, but Arthur knows he rocks a strong Attentive Face when needed. He employs it now while President Iwai ascends the podium. And he listens.

_“I must say, I wasn’t expecting to be assigned to America’s gorgeous new president, but I had hoped. And here you are.”_

President Iwai starts reading off his speech with great excitement. Arthur keeps his Attentive Face locked in position, but his eyes scan the surrounding clusters of staffers as much as he can without being obvious. He’s wildly curious to see who is on the other end of the connection, partially convinced this is a prank of some kind. But there’s no official interpreter booth set up at this event, and the armies of aides, security teams, and media personnel prevent him from picking his translator out from the crowd.

_“Christ, you’re so beautiful in that fancy suit of yours. Can’t decide if I’d rather look at you in it, or out of it.”_

Arthur blinks. Surely he didn’t just hear that?

_"I bet you’re a pretty picture under all that fuss. Creamy skin and a tight little body.”_

Heat creeps up his neck and across his ears. A childhood response that he’s never managed to grow out of. He can only hope most eyes are on President Iwai and won’t notice he’s blushing for no apparent reason.

_“Oh, I can only imagine how you’d look underneath me. And you’d be eager, too, wouldn’t you? Christ, you would. Squirming and bucking.”_

He squirms now. Because although this is ridiculously inappropriate of—whoever this guy is, and Arthur really should be getting security’s attention… it’s also unbelievably hot.

The crux of the matter is, Arthur has a bit of _thing_ for British accents. Especially British accents muttering filthy things, low and intimate in his ear. Hazy memories fill his mind, flashes of hot desert nights and furtive touches in a dark corner.

To his horror, he feels himself getting hard. Oh, god, what if someone notices? He crosses his legs as carefully as he can. The last thing he needs is a worldwide scandal about President Levine and his stiffy.

_“I’d have to hold you down, keep you in place while I’m fucking you but good. Do you like it deep? Is that how you want it? Want me to pin you flat while I push in slow and deep. Would you moan for me, beautiful? Would you beg?”_

He would, Arthur wants to say. Even now he can feel a moan building up in the back of his throat as the voice paints the most delicious images in his head.

_“Christ, you’d feel so good on my cock. Squeezing me with your tight arse. Hot and snug. And you’ll love it. Love every bit of me fucking into you. You’ll be singing for my cock in you, crying out for everyone to hear.”_

Arthur has to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from panting. It frustrates him that the communication only goes one way. That all he can do is listen helplessly while doing his best to keep the crowds and—fuck—news cameras from seeing that he’s seconds away from dropping to his knees and begging a faceless stranger to fuck him.

The president’s speech passes by in a blur. Arthur hasn’t heard a word of it, but suddenly people all around him are applauding. He numbly brings his hands up to clap.

 _“Looks like our time is up. Pity. Talk to you later, beautiful.”_ The connection cuts, leaving dead silence behind.

Arthur yanks the headset off and spins in every direction, scanning the many hundreds of faces.

What. The. Fuck.


	2. Or Something

In the hustle and bustle that follows President Iwai’s speech—mental note, get transcript from Yusuf later—Arthur tries to excuse himself to a restroom. As much as he’d love to hunt down the man behind the voice, there’s a more _pressing_ issue at hand, and Arthur really needs a moment of privacy to get it, er… in hand.

As primed as he is, it won’t take more than a quick tug to break open the floodgates on his restrained arousal. He’s calmed down enough that his shame isn’t readily apparent to anyone looking his way, but he still feels like a firm breeze could set him off if he isn’t careful.

Unfortunately, his escape to the restroom is waylaid by the president of France, wanting to congratulate him again on his election. And normally Arthur would be all for some extra time with a French accent and a firm handshake, but he can still hear that lilting voice in his hear.

_Moan for me._

Carefully extricating himself from the conversation, Arthur takes four long strides towards the direction of the restrooms and practically runs right into the President of Ecuador, who immediately launches into an eager monologue about global economics. The other man doesn’t so much as pause to breathe, giving Arthur no opportunity to pry himself from the one-sided conversation.

Side benefit, though, is that all the mind numbing financial talk kills the remains of his boner. The arousal lingers under his skin, there’ll be no getting rid of that until tonight, most likely. But at least no one but him will _know_. Take that, Fox and Friends. Nothing to see here.

From off to the side, he catches the eye of one of his Secret Service agents and gets an idea. “Excuse me, I need to have a word with one of my people.”

He scurries off while the Ecuadoran president is still mid-word, making a direct line for the agent as if he had urgent business to discuss. Which, in a way, is sort of true. There’s urgency, at least. “Hey, Ari.”

“Yes, Mr. President? Can I help with something?”

“I hope so. Do you know who the guy is that was translating for me?”

She frowns a little in surprise. “Not specifically, no. I believe he’s attached to Iwai’s staff. But we ran backgrounds on all the Vanuatu personnel that would be involved this weekend. Cobb should have a report somewhere. Do you want me to—”

“No, no,” Arthur jumps in, feeling his ears heat up again. “That’s not necessary.”

Ariadne’s face is still tense with concern. “Is something wrong? Did he—”

“Everything’s fine. I just thought his voice sounded familiar or something.” And now that he’s said it, Arthur realizes that actually rings true. There’s something about that voice, or maybe the cadence of how the man spoke, that niggles at the back of Arthur’s mind. “Well, thanks anyway. I should probably mingle.”

By now, an open reception for all the dignitaries and their staff is fully underway, and Arthur has lost all opportunity to sneak away for some personal time. He spends the next hour and a half shaking hands, dodging questions, and smiling through gritted teeth as one veteran politician after another makes the same tired joke about finding himself a First Gentleman.

Arthur’s presidency may be in its infancy, but his celebrity status skyrocketed after the primary elections, and his face has been plastered over international media ever since. The attention still isn’t something he’s used to, especially the way people talk to him as if they all know his life story.

Coming from a modest background in nonprofits and local government offices, nothing about Arthur had ever been flashy or well-known outside of professional circles. He didn’t even win the popular vote. But Arthur has always had a reputation as the guy that Gets Stuff Done, and that earned him a legion of influential endorsements from a nation that was fed up, impatient, and desperate for competent leadership.

Independents loved that he owed no allegiance to any major party and legitimized third-party voters for the first time in… well, a long time. Liberals loved that he was openly gay and could make corporations understand the economic benefit of green practices. Conservatives loved his fiscal responsibility and no-nonsense attitude towards national security. Even his staunchest critics from the right were appeased when Arthur picked Robert Fischer, a blue-blooded billionaire with deep roots in the good ol’ boy network—and Arthur’s former college roommate—for his running mate.

His campaign had been a carefully calculated gamble, one that paid off on Election Day. And ever since, his name and face has been at the forefront of every media outlet across the nation, and somedays even across the globe.

As the “first elected Independent president since George Washington” there’s a lot of hype and buzz around his policies. As the “first openly gay American president” there’s a shit storm of controversy. As the “best-looking bachelor president since Michael Douglas in that one movie” there’s a record-setting amount of fanfiction based on a living political figure.

And as Arthur dances from one conversation to the next, smile fixed in place, he has all of that shoved in his face over and over again by other politicians and dignitaries that seem to consider him to be more of a fascinating novelty than a respectable peer.

After almost two hours of pleasantries and social maneuvering, he manages to break free from the Croatian prime minister and makes a beeline to the bar. More wine is definitely needed, if he’s going to survive the rest of the afternoon.

As he approaches the bar, Arthur spies something else that might help make the event more pleasurable. Chatting with the bartender is a gorgeous specimen of manhood. A broad back and thick shoulders push the boundaries of a ridiculously salmon-and-gold striped shirt that, upon a half-second of reflection, really should have a tempering effect on Arthur’s interest. But as Arthur’s eyes wander over the plush curve of a grade-A ass and tanned, strong hands, he finds himself willing to overlook a regrettable color choice or two.

He doesn’t actually mean to stare. He’s worked hard to keep his image scandal free, especially once the possibility of winning the election became more of a viable reality and less of a pipe dream. Unfortunately, playing the good boy has largely resulted in him being celibate since the early days of his campaign.

So, really, can he be blamed for making the most of a lovely view? It’s no wonder that he’s feeling so riled up and indiscriminately horny for any pretty thing that—

Wait.

No.

No way in hell this can be real.

“Eames?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this chapter ended up pretty tame. ::shrug:: Fear not, the next one won't be.


	3. Accepted Parlance

Eames turns to him, smiling softly and looking not at all surprised to see him. “You remember.”

Arthur stares—blatant and open now that he has a good reason—at the living, breathing trip down memory lane that’s standing in front of him. “Of course, I remember.”

Because, yeah… it’s been twenty-five years. And Eames is older, bulkier than the scruffy war reporter he met overseas while in the military. But those jade eyes are still as kind and flirty as he remembers. That smile is the same mouth that has haunted his daydreams and fantasies. He could never forget that mouth. The way it touched him, caressed him. The incredibly hot and dirty things it whispered in his ear while they—

“W-wait,” he stammers, surprised he didn’t make the connection the first second that he laid eyes on Eames. “You’re the translator.”

The smile Eames gives him is equal parts shy and flirty. “Interpreter is the accepted parlance, but… yes. Guilty.”

“You son of a—” After a quick look at the bartender, Arthur drops his volume, overly conscious of the people around them. “You son of a bitch. I can’t believe… you’re lucky I didn’t have you arrested.”

Eames tilts his head at that, considering. The look in his eyes is far too focused for Arthur’s comfort. “And why didn’t you?”

“I don’t—I mean…” He trails off, flustered and caught without words despite his extensive history of public speaking. This—talking to the man that once gave him the most erotic moment of his life and has now popped up out of fucking nowhere—he has no ready response for any of this that’s happening right now except to turn away and stare at the display of expensive liquor bottles behind the bar. Which conveniently hides the growing bulge in his slacks, so…

“Hey, no.” Eames sidles closer—too close, their sleeves have no business touching like that. “Easy now. I’m not here to make trouble for you, despite appearances.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Honestly, love, I wanted to see you again.”

“You—what?”

Eames gifts him with a grimacing little smile, crooked teeth chewing into one of those plump, distracting lips. “I’ve been making a nice wage here in Vanuatu for the last few years, doing translating and interpreting work for the official types. When we caught wind of the political uproar happening over in the States, well… I wasn’t expecting to see your beautiful face on the evening news.”

“Eames.”

“Never thought I’d see you again. Certainly not under these circumstances,” Eames waves a hand at their surroundings, the show of wealth and immense power under one roof. “It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Besides,” he smiles, leaning in close to Arthur’s ear, “we never got to have our moment, did we?”

Arthur shivers, assaulted by the rush of memories invoked by Eames’s hushed voice.

He’d been nineteen at the time, a bored soldier without a cause or a care. He hadn’t joined the military because he was a patriot, or because he had strong feelings about national defense—back then, anyway. He had just wanted to see the world. And how else was he going to get out of Bumfuck, Oregon?

Arthur had quickly learned that war sucks. Really, really sucks. But he’d also discovered that he was, somehow, actually pretty good at being a solider. The structure and chain of command. Mission-oriented planning and clear rules of engagement. Within that environment, Arthur had flourished.

He’d also been bored as fuck, standing around waiting for the next round of orders to move him from point A to point B.

Cue one very hot, very obnoxious embedded reporter for a British newspaper. It was a chance meeting that almost never happened, and they only had a few hours together, talking and getting lit on warm beer and black-market pot. It had been just enough time for Eames to sweet talk Arthur into a dark corner and half out of his pants, rutting against each other like a couple of school boys while Eames muttered filth in his ear.

One of the biggest regrets of Arthur’s life was the drunken brawl that broke out across the room, interrupting before either of them could finish. By the time Arthur had yanked his pants up and gotten his idiotic friends under order, Eames was gone.

Even still, it had been the hottest sexual experience of his life, and Arthur never forgot about it. He’d even tried looking Eames up a few times, but the reporter had fallen off the map.

Yet, here he was.

Arthur calls himself a fool in four languages, but that doesn’t stop him from running his eyes over Eames’s body and all the good things that age has gifted him with. “Is that what you’re after? Finishing what we started?”

Eames lifts a brow at the less-than-subtle gesture. “I certainly wouldn’t be opposed.” His voice hushes to a barely-there murmur. “I’m still aching to see what you look like when you come.”

And Arthur thinks about it, actually thinks carefully about what he’s about to set in motion. The risks, the threats, the complications.

The rewards.

Ultimately, there’s no real decision to be made. “In that case, Mr. Eames, you should buy me a drink.”

 

 

 

“The Ambassador of Cambodia just said your arse looks smashing in those trousers.”

Arthur doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder as the ambassador in question walks past. “No, he didn’t.”

“You don’t speak Khmer.”

“Neither do you.”

“How do you know?”

Arthur hesitates, does his best to read past the gleam in Eames’s eyes. “You don’t,” he finally decides, and is vindicated when Eames nods amiably.

“I don’t,” he agrees, “but I do speak red-blooded male, and that man is having impure thoughts about your bum.”

“Is that what your expert translator training is telling you?”

“Interpreter, darling. Interpreter.”

“Right, of course. Well, go on, then. Interpret.”

They continue strolling through the gardens, smiling blankly at passing officials while Eames translates some of the conversations around them with a playful smirk that puts in question the veracity of everything he says.

Arthur is glad he spent the first few hours of the reception schmoozing and mingling as his position requires because he’s had eyes and ears for nothing but Eames since the beginning of their (second—or is it third) serendipitous encounter.

“Come on, this way,” Eames gambols across a narrow foot bridge and into a wooden pavilion surrounded by a koi-filled stream.

Arthur follows at a more sedate pace. “You have a habit of luring me off into seclusion. Should I be worried?”

He’s not, of course. Far from it. Even without Ari’s reassuring presence hovering at the edge of his vision, Arthur is completely at ease in Eames’s company. Well, maybe not _completely_. There’s a giddy, tense buzzing sensation just under his skin that leaves him hyper aware of every move and sound that Eames makes. But for the first time in a long time, Arthur isn’t in a rush to be anywhere but exactly where he is. And although he has no real idea where this thing with Eames is going to lead, he’s certainly excited to find out.

“Something tells me you worry too much, as it is.” Eames leans against one of the railings in a very picturesque way, forcing Arthur to take a more composed stance at his side.

“Comes with the job,” he says with a shrug.

“Now, see, I don’t buy that. I think you’ve always been the sort to think just a little too much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with thinking.”

“Is if it keeps you from feeling. From breathing and living.”

Arthur can’t help but frown a little at that. “Life’s not that simple. You know it isn’t.”

“Fair enough,” Eames, contrary to expectation, doesn’t argue the point further. Arthur can all but see him shifting mental gears. “Guess I’ll just have to give you something good to think about, then. Seeing as how you’re so determined and all.”

It doesn’t take a lofty intellect to infer what he’s getting at. “Eames, anyone could see us. Ari can see us.”

Eames’s smile is undaunted. “But no one can _hear_ us. And no one can sneak up without us knowing. We’re safe as houses here. So you just stand there looking as prim and pretty as you do—”

“I don’t—”

“And I’ll take care of all that bothersome thinking.”

Against all common sense, Arthur feels himself relaxing here, tensing there. His body preparing himself for another assault on his senses. “What did you have in mind?”

“Hmm.” Eames discretely nudges him around so that they’re both facing out from the pavilion, ostensibly taking in the view of the gardens and merrily swimming koi. The change in position puts Eames beside and just slightly behind Arthur’s shoulder, where he can speak softly into Arthur’s ear. “You know, I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you. Fresh out into the world with your perfectly regulation haircut and dimpled cheeks.”

“I hate my dimples.”

“Hush, you. They’re precious. _You_ were precious, so obviously untried and unused to being touched. I could think of nothing but how delicious it would be to claim you. Teach you how to please me.”

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. That’s exactly what he had wanted, that day. For this gorgeous stranger to take him, wreck him and overwhelm him and drag him straight down into the depths of sin. If only they'd had more time…

“But I’ve got to say,” Eames is continuing, “I do believe I like this version even better. So polished and buttoned up. It makes me imagine terrible things, seeing you all fancied up like this. Such naughty, dirty things.”

He lets his eyes fell shut, lost in the husky purr of Eames’s voice. Lost in _Eames_ , standing so close that Arthur can feel the heat of him, smell the hints of smoke and spice on his skin.

“I want to unwrap you like a present. Strip you down one button at a time. You want that, don’t you? You want to be laid bare for me to touch any way I like. And I’m going to take it,” Eames declares with a certainty that sends Arthur’s pulse racing. “Take everything you’re offering. Make you mine.”

“Eames.” It’s a moan, a plea. It’s the only word his brain can manage right now.

“I’m going to run my mouth down that sleek body. Lick you all over. Use my teeth to mark you up so that anyone who sees you knows who you belong to.”

“Shit,” Arthur gasps, feeling his dick grow hot and hard in his pants. He can so easily imagine Eames doing everything he says, and it’s so frustrating that he can’t just turn and throw himself at the man. Pull him to the ground and let Eames have his way with him. But he can’t. They can’t do anything while out here where anyone and their camera could see. And if he thought Eames was going to play things easy…

“I’m going to fuck you, Arthur. I’m going to put you on your knees in front of me. Get you all wet and sloppy. Open you up with my fingers, stretch you out and make you ripe for my cock. And then I’m going to fuck my way in, get so deep inside you.”

“Eames.”

“You’ll be so full of me. Won’t be able to so much as breathe without feeling how I’ve split you wide. And you’ll be so very tight, won’t you? There’ll barely be room for me to move. To fuck into your sweet, needy little arse.”

“ _Eames_.” He’s shaking, shuddering with the effort of keeping still while his erection rubs wetly against the inside of his underwear with every fine tremor.

“I’m going to love feeling you tremble against me, straining to hold every inch of my cock inside you. Squeezing me hard because you’re too greedy to let go even for a second.”

“Fuck.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Arthur launches himself out of the fantasy and away from Eames’s side, opening his eyes to find his staffer with one foot on the bridge leading to their little hideaway. “Yusuf! For f—what? What do you need?”

The expression on Yusuf’s face is awkwardly uncomfortable but reassuringly clueless. “I, uh… sorry, sir. Uh, Mr. President. Sir.”

Arthur forces his mind clear of the lusty, Eames-induced fog and gives the staffer his patented, impatient glare. “Yusuf.”

“Right. Sorry. There’s going to be a toast. Miles said to get you.”

He doesn’t whimper in frustration. But it’s a near thing. “Fine. I mean, yes, I’ll be right there.”

Yusuf interprets that—correctly—as a dismissal and scurries off. Arthur watches him go as he tries to remind himself of responsibilities and sworn duties. Behind him, Eames clears his throat. “Duty calls,” he says, his voice still ragged with arousal.

Arthur steals a glance from over his shoulder, takes note of Eames’s glazed eyes, and smiles. At least he’s not the only knocked for a loop. “I just keep reminding myself, I signed up for this.”

Eames returns the smile with interest. “Go on, then. Do your presidential thing. It’s hot,” he adds with a wink.

“Thanks,” Arthur huffs, burying the fresh wave of lust that ridiculous gesture inspires. He walks off before Eames can do anything else to fluster him. Only, by the time multiple remarks are made and the champagne is consumed, Eames is nowhere to be found.


	4. Those Administrations

Duty doesn’t stop calling, that unrelenting bitch. Arthur spends all of the next day giving interviews, handling emergencies from back home, and sitting through one high-stakes meeting after another.

A lesser man would have been brought low by panic and exhaustion within the first couple of hours, but Arthur cut his professional teeth on working as a personal assistant to the CEO of Proclus Global. In some ways, the presidency is a step down in terms of workload. And under different circumstances, he might have considered the day routine. A cake walk. Practically a working vacation.

But Arthur has other things on his mind than international trade agreements.

There’s no sign of Eames today. No interpreter assistance is necessary because, apparently, all the other world leaders speak English perfectly when they aren’t talking behind Arthur’s back. Okay, probably no one’s talking about him. Much. Or, rather, when they do, they’re doing it right in front of him. But that means he doesn’t see Eames anywhere.

Hell, for all he knows, Eames’s role at the summit has been fulfilled, and he’s off wherever he calls home on this island. It could very well be that Arthur will never see Eames again.

That thought is so unexpectedly upsetting that Arthur promptly shoves it to the back of his mind.

He survives the morning with only a slight headache from frowning too much. Lunch is passed with the Finnish president exchanging university anecdotes over exceptional braised lamb and shitty pasta salad. By the time his afternoon engagements are underway, Arthur is convinced his window of opportunity with Eames has slammed shut once more.

It’s a struggle to keep the preoccupation off of his face as walks down a corridor of conference rooms, trailing the group of NAFTA stakeholders he just met with. A burst of laughter down the hall draws his attention. A contingent of Southeast Asian dignitaries trickle out of another conference room, chatting and chuckling like they’ve just come from happy hour instead of serious diplomatic talks. And at the back of the group, smiling along to a joke that Arthur can’t understand, is Eames.

A distant part of Arthur’s brain is gratified to see that he’s not the only government leader requiring translation help, after all. The rest of him… the rest of him has locked onto to that scruffy face like a homing beacon. Fuck, he probably even has stars in his eyes and a dopey smile on his face, but he can’t bring himself to care even a little.

Eames sees him coming and lingers behind while the rest of his group continues down the corridor, oblivious in some kind of story exchange. As Arthur sidles up beside him, Eames’s smile is welcome yet demur—the perfect mask of professionalism. It’s only because Arthur is standing close enough to see Eames’s darkened eyes that he can read the lusty appreciation in that smile.

“Hello, again, Mr. President. Lovely as always to see you.”

“Eames.” Arthur looks around, sees no one but Ariadne and her partner watching them. Ari’s face is as composed as ever, but Arthur sees the tiny nod she sends him. Encouragement? Permission? Whatever it is, Arthur accepts.

Painfully conscious of the full schedule he’s about to mess up, he shoves Eames back into the empty conference room without comment and closes the door with a trembling hand. He’s not sure if it’s nerves or excitement—or maybe Eames just has a way of eliciting both feelings at once. It doesn’t matter, though, because Arthur has decided that nothing is going to stop him from getting what he wants from this man, once and for all.

Eames looks at him with concern. “Everything all right, darling?”

“Kiss me.” It’s not the gentle seduction that Arthur had imagined in his head. The words bark out of him like a command—he _is_ the leader of the free world, after all. But he wants no misunderstandings between them, and time is too short at the moment for any of Eames’s maddening games. He grabs the front of Eames’s shirt and pulls him close, until Eames has to press up against him or else trip over their colliding feet. “I said, kiss me. Now.”

The grin Eames gives is brazen and challenging, even as he leans forward to obey. Arthur braces himself for an onslaught of sensation. Except… the first touch of their lips after twenty-five years is achingly sweet and frustratingly brief. Just a brush of Eames’s mouth, lips parting the smallest bit to cup around Arthur’s own bottom lip, before he pulls away. And Arthur doesn’t mean to make the noise (see earlier thought about being the most powerful man in the world) but an eager whimper escapes his throat before he knows it’s happening. Combined with the way he’s now clutching at Eames’s sides, crowding against him, and all pretense of command has flown right out the window.

Eames holds himself back, just far enough that he can look him in the eye. Arthur doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but he’s desperate to give it so long as Eames stops keeping himself from him. Anything—everything Eames wants, he can have it.

He apparently comes to the same conclusion because suddenly Arthur is being backed up against the door, mouth occupied and lips spread as Eames dives in. Nothing sweet about this kiss. Just pure desire and need riding along the tip of Eames’s tongue, the edges of his teeth.

Arthur doesn’t know what sounds he’s making now, but he’s sure there must be plenty. He wants this, so much.  No more teasing, no more games. His dick is a bar of iron in his pants, and he’s probably going to embarrass himself soon if he doesn’t get some relief.

He lets hands roam over Eames’s torso, tracing every curve of muscle that he hasn’t been able to touch yet. Some he remembers from their tryst ages ago. Others are new and beautiful under his palms. God, the body on this man. He’ll feel so big pressing against him, holding him down.

Arthur gives off a delighted little shiver and sucks harder on Eames’s tongue. A sort of _thank you_ for being so fucking hot. Eames returns the sentiment by running a heavy hand down to Arthur’s ass and dragging their hips together. Fuck, yes. The hot pressure of Eames’s erection tight against his own… Arthur can’t help but grind against it, moaning. He could come from this. He could so easily come from just this, and he clings to Eames’s shoulders in a desperate attempt at anchoring himself in the storm of lust raging inside him.

Only… now Eames is pulling away. Putting distance between them. He’s taking all that hard heat back from Arthur, and that’s just unacceptable. “Don’t stop,” he begs, leaning against restraining hands to be close again.

At least Eames looks as wrecked as Arthur feels. Pupils blown and lips flushed. “Darling—”

But Arthur hears it, then. The soft knock on the other side of the door. It’s possibly the worst sound in existence. “Damn it.”

“Time to go, love.”

“No.”

Eames’s laugh is warm and soft. As is the look in his eyes, which sets off all kinds of reactions in Arthur. “I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.”

Arthur pouts. Just a little. “I don’t want to.”

Another knock, and Arthur can practically _feel_ Ariadne’s increasing urgency through the door.

Eames pops a final kiss on his lips and steps back. “Off to work with you. The world is waiting.”

Arthur lets himself be nudged out the door, adjusting himself as he goes. He hears the door shut behind him, and he’s left face-to-face with an apologetic Ari and a disapproving Miles.

“No explanations, please,” Miles scolds, “just come along. You’ve got less than three minutes to meet your next appointment.”

Arthur knows better than to resist when Miles breaks out that tone of voice. He dutifully allows himself be led off to his next meeting. And then the next. It’s during a five-minute coffee break that he realizes he still has no way of contacting Eames. Then again, his phone number is probably on file somewhere, right? All Arthur has to do is ask for it. He once got a Thai peanut chicken pizza delivered to him from the West Coast; a simple telephone number isn’t beyond his reach.

But first, a little groundwork is necessary.

He waves Ariadne over to an empty side of the room. He tries to keep his demeanor low-key and unremarkable for the constant prying eyes that follow him. Only he’s not sure how successful he is given the arched brow Ari gives him. And damn her hide anyway, he’s the one that taught her how to do that.

“Did you need something, sir?”

Arthur drops his voice as low as he can and still be heard. “Yeah. I need a favor.”

“It’s not going to get me fired, is it?”

“No.” He considers that. “Probably not.”

“Arrested?”

“No.”

Ariadne tilts her head in thought. “Executed?”

“ _No_. Would you just listen?”

“Whatever you need, Mr. President.”

“Jesus Christ. Look,” he coughs, more nervous than he’s been since his inauguration. “I’d like to—I plan on having a guest tonight.”

She seems confused but not concerned. “At dinner?”

“ _Later_ tonight.”

“Ah.” And there’s the light of comprehension and… is that glee? She looks a little gleeful. “A certain gentleman from before?”

“Yes.” Arthur catches himself shuffling his feet. Like a damned schoolboy with a crush. He throws back his shoulders and pretends like this conversation isn’t making him want to crawl into a hole. “So could you… do whatever you guys do to make sure he has access to my suite?”

Ariadne smiles at him like a dirty-minded cherub. Definitely gleeful. “You want us to have him cleaned and brought to your room?”

“For fucks sake, Ari.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Couldn’t pass that one up. Ahem.” For the first time, she gets a little hesitant. “You know, we’ll need to clear him, first.”

Arthur frowns. And then frowns more. “What? No. I mean, I thought you already did that. Or else he wouldn’t be here.”

“Sir, there’s a world of difference between providing a professional service at a state event and providing—”

“Okay, okay. Yes, I get it. Fine.” Fucking hell. He never anticipated how difficult it would be to get a president laid. CNN made it seem much easier. “Do what you need to do.”

The potential delay is not happy news. It leaves him jittery and fretful. And he’s probably projecting because Ariadne smirks ever so slightly. “I’ll put a rush on it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

That part accomplished, Arthur returns to his meeting and tries to focus on actual work. He manages to do his best to further world peace while avoiding making a fool of himself the rest of the afternoon. But all along, he muses on how to solve part two of his plan. Miles is still giving him the disapproving side eye, so no assistance there. Ariadne already has her marching orders. And no way is he talking to Cobb about any of this. Finally, right before stepping into the planned dinner festivities, Arthur decides to suck it up and corners Yusuf by the restrooms. “Hey, Yusuf. You know that interpreter from yesterday?”

“Sure. Do you need me to bring him in for a meeting? I think he’s contracted for the entire week, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Oh. No, not that.” Or maybe… “I mean, yes! I do need him. For a meeting.”

Yusuf pulls out his phone and starts tapping in notes. “Okay, not a problem. Which one?”

Caught off guard, Arthur stalls. In a very awkward, obvious way. “I mean, nothing set for sure. I just… thought I’d call him. To find out…”

Yusuf raises both eyebrows at him, higher and higher the longer Arthur spins out. “Sir?”

“You know… if he’s available.” Arthur kind of wants to die. But mostly he wants to see Eames naked. _Perseverance_ , he internally chants. “So, if maybe you could get his number for me…”

Yusuf throws his hands up, exasperated. “Oh, hell. This isn’t going to be one of _those_ administrations, is it?”

Arthur rears back. “Excuse you. No. I just—”

“Because I promised my mother I wouldn’t participate in any scandals…”

“You do remember I’m your boss, right?”

“…voted for you, and I’d hate to have to tell her that…”

“Why doesn’t anyone seem to remember that? Technically, I’m everyone’s boss. Or, at least, the American everyones. You know what I mean.”

“…wanted me to be a doctor…”

Arthur drags a hand across his face, wishing he could so easily wipe away the last five minutes. “For Christ—crying out loud, Yusuf, could you please just do what I ask?” After all this, he had better be getting fucked tonight. Epically. Twice.

“Hmmph. Well, if you’re going to be like _that_ about it. You know, if I’d known you were an elitist about…”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I don't know how any of that security behind-the-scenes stuff would actually work. And let's just pretend I told you earlier that Miles is Arthur's personal aide or whatever ::waves hands::


	5. That's A Lot

That evening finds Arthur pacing in his suite, rethinking every life decision that has led him to this moment.

_“Darling! Lovely to hear from you. I imagine you’re calling to provide context as to why I spent the afternoon being interviewed by Secret Service.”_

_“What? Shit. I mean—sorry. I, uh, I didn’t realize they would—fuck.”_

_“Easy, love. No harm, no foul. But it certainly left me curious.”_

_“They didn’t say why…”_

_“Hmm, no. Charming bloke by the name of Cobb said something about increased security clearance. So maybe you tell me, beautiful, what confidential secrets I may be privy to.”_

Eames had accepted the invitation with easy cheer, but Arthur is apparently so tuned in to Eames’s voice now that he picked up on the heated purr underscoring the casual words. Eames understood exactly what Arthur was asking for, and the transparency of his own need had Arthur hardening in his pants.

Eames should be there any minute. He’d said to give him an hour, and it’s been at least fifteen minutes past that. Giving Arthur plenty of time to lose his mind from nerves and horniness.

What is he even doing, anyway? He shouldn’t be doing this. Politicians have been brought down by far less than a booty call to his suite in the middle of a state event. He really, really shouldn’t be doing this. But, fuck, it’s been so long since Arthur’s been touched properly. And just thinking about all the ways Eames has promised to touch him has him crawling the walls.

By the time there’s a knock on the door, Arthur is a jittery wreck. In more ways than one. He opens the door to find Eames looking ridiculously attractive in jeans and a faded gray Henley. The soft material clings to Eames’s arms and shoulders in a way that’s giving Arthur ideas. He wants to climb that body like a tree. He wants to drop to his knees and nuzzle into the bulge already growing in Eames’s pants. He wants to slam the door in Eames’s face and hide under the blankets.

He does none of those things. Although it’s a near miss. “Come in,” he urges, carefully locking them in even though he’s pretty sure all of his staff know what’s going on tonight. “Can I, uh, get you anything? A drink? Let me get you a drink. There isn’t much, I’m afraid. Just the basics. I don’t think the resort wants all of us getting drunk every night.” What is he doing? Why the fuck does he keep _talking?_ “Not that I normally get drunk every night. I don’t really drink much.” Shit, maybe that sounds too uptight. “But you can, if you want.” Too suggestive? “I mean, I don’t mind.” Jesus, he’s never getting laid now. “Not saying that you need my permission. I’m not judging. Or permitting. Or _not_ permitting.” No. No. Abort! Abort words! “I mean—well, you know what I mean. So do you know what you’d like? If you’d like something, of course. You don’t have to—”

He’s about one sentence away from bashing his head into the wall, just to make himself shut up. Fortunately, Eames decides that’s a good time to take Arthur into his arms. “Look at you. You’re a mess, aren’t you, love?”

Arthur makes a soft sound, one he’d deny ever making in the light of day, and clings to Eames’s shirt. He might be on the verge of hyperventilating. But Eames is already carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair. Soothing him. “Shh, shh. Here now, let me mess you up a little more.”

Eames kisses him, slow but full of intent. Arthur is too caught up in his own need to reciprocate. Just holds on tight and lets himself open up for Eames’s lips and tongue. He’s pliant when Eames uses the grip on his hair to tilt his head further back, dominating the kiss.

When they’re both breathless, Eames breaks free and searches Arthur’s gaze. “Tell me if you want this. All the things I’m going to do to you. Tell me now.”

“I want you.”

“You sure?”

Arthur ruts up against Eames’s hip. “Touch me, Eames. Please. I need you to. Need you.” He smothers the desperate pleas into the warm skin of Eames’s neck, embarrassed by the depth of his craving.

“All right, love. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Eames wastes no time stripping Arthur bare, leaving a trail of clothes all the way to the bedroom. Arthur tries to help, but his fingers have gone numb. He lets Eames move him about like a ragdoll, lying back on the bed when directed.

“I’m going to take my time with you later. Make you come in so many ways. But first, I need to be inside you, love. Waited so long to feel you.”

“Yes,” Arthur pants. This is happening. It’s actually happening.

“Do you have—”

“Bathroom. I’ll get it.”

“No, you stay right there.” Eames quickly locates the small bottle of lube in the ensuite and strips off his own clothes before sitting on the edge of the bed.

Arthur devours him with his eyes. He knew Eames was hiding considerable bulk under those atrocious clothes, but he isn’t prepared for the shock of pure lust that hits him at the sight of all those muscles. Those soft-looking pink nipples. And, oh Jesus— “That’s a lot of tattoos.”

“Ah, yes. Hope that’s not a problem?”

Arthur takes his eyes around for a second loop, tracing the layers of nonsensical ink. He pictures himself licking them. “Nope. Definitely not a problem.”

“Good.”

Eames stretches that beautiful body over him. The shock of hot, naked skin against his own has Arthur gasping, an opportunity Eames capitalizes on by taking his mouth in another demanding kiss. But Arthur is far from idle this time. He gets his hands all over every inch of flesh that he can reach—the flexing muscles of Eames’s back, those ink-stained arms, the surprisingly soft curve of waist leading down to a lush ass that he wouldn’t mind taking a turn at. Later.

Moaning into the kiss, Arthur spreads his legs further and relishes how Eames instantly fills the space with his body. With little effort, he’s able to grind his aching cock against Eames’s belly and the dusting of hair there. It feels incredibly good. Fuck, as wound up as he is, this may be all he needs to finish.

Lured by thoughts of his first Eames-induced orgasm, he wraps one leg up around Eames’s hip and thrusts. The first full stroke nearly has him biting Eames’s tongue off, his entire body seizing against the onslaught of pleasure. He pulls back and latches his mouth onto Eames’s neck, instead, sucking and nipping in time with the increasingly frantic roll of his hips.

He’s one dirty thought away from coming when Eames shoves back with a curse. Taking all that beautiful friction away. “Come back,” Arthur cries out, hands clawing into Eames’s biceps as he tries to drag the man back where he needs him.

Eames holds Arthur off, eyes smoldering with manic fire. He sits back on his heels, drawing Arthur’s attention to the hard cock spearing out from between his thighs. Eames is uncut—a first for Arthur—but the foreskin has pulled back enough for Arthur to see the wet, gleaming slit. He wants that on his tongue.

He cranes his body forward, gaze locked on target, but Eames catches him by the shoulders. “No, no, darling. I’ve got plans for you. Be a good boy, yeah?”

“Eames, please. I just need—”

“I know what you need. And I’m going to give it to you.”

 


	6. I Admire Your Dedication

“Come here.” Eames manhandles Arthur onto his front, knees bent and hips up so he can’t rub against the mattress and “get ahead of the game.”

The first touch comes blessedly quick. Just the slick tip of one finger at first, but before Arthur can complain Eames is pushing in. Working him open with gentle insistence. The stretch burns in the most delicious way—the prelude to greater fullness and the subsequent pleasure that Arthur hungers for. It’s fucking fantastic, is what it is… but the pressure in his ass makes him all the more aware of how empty his mouth feels.

He carefully breaks away from Eames, rotating around on his hands and knees until he has the angle he wants.

“Arthur?” Eames questions, sounding a little concerned and a whole lot of confused.

“Just let me…” But actions explain better than words, sometimes, so Arthur dips his head down and takes the tip of Eames’s cock in his mouth.

“Fuck. Arthur.” One hand instantly dives through his hair, clenching tight as if Eames might try to pull him off. Arthur sucks hard, causing a second hand to skid across his back. “Arthur… Christ… if you keep that up, we’re going to miss the good part.”

Arthur hums in disagreement—he’s an excellent multitasker, after all—and spreads his knees further apart. Even then, Eames doesn’t catch on until he wiggles his hips a little. With a few muttered curses, Eames finally gets with the program, and Arthur feels the returning touch of slippery fingers against his hole. He knows it’s probably a reach for Eames, but it’s difficult to care with the satisfying weight of a hard dick between his lips.

He eases up on the suction, opting to trace the rim of Eames’s foreskin with his tongue. He’s quite eager to learn more about this extra bit of fun. He licks in under the hood, stroking around the head, and moans as Eames retaliates by pressing a second finger deep into his ass.

If he could just get some friction on his own erection, things would be perfect. But Eames keeps him up on his knees, ass high and speared on two fingers. So Arthur sinks into the moment, alternating between running his tongue in firm circles along the shaft of Eames’s cock and sucking up the ensuing beads of precome.

_knock knock knock_

The sound registers as a vague annoyance. Dimmed out by his own panting moans around the thick length in his mouth. Easily ignored. And when the fingers in his ass hesitate, a warning scrape of teeth is enough to get them moving again.

Arthur sighs, sucking harder. Bliss.

_knock knock_

Eames goes still. "Darling..."

Arthur pulls off just long enough to command, "Don't stop." And then he’s back at task, sucking now for all he’s worth.

"I—fuck, oh god—I ad—ah—I admire your dedication, but—”

_knockknockknock_

“Mr. President?”

Goddamnit, Ariadne. First opportunity he gets, he’s getting her reassigned to the Clinton detail. He rocks his hips back against Eames’s hand, trying to force those now-just-a-big-cocktease fingers to fuck back into him.

_knock knock_

“Mr. President.”

Instead of doing his civic duty to get him off as fast as possible, Eames disengages his fingers and his dick from Arthur’s grasp. The bastard. "I don’t think she's going away anytime soon."

_knockknockknockknockknockknock knock KNOCK KNOCK_

"Mr. President? Um. Arthur?"

Arthur gets up and yanks on his discarded pants, resentful of the lube stains he's no doubt smearing all over the fabric. He marches out to the main room of the suite and throws open the door. "What the ever-loving fuck, Ari?"

To her credit, Ariadne barely glances at her commander in chief’s erection peeking out of his half-zipped pants. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a potential security breach.”

“Mother fucking _fuck_ fuck—” Arthur drops his head back and begs the heavens for strength. “What is it?”

“Unknown. Suspicious movement on one of the motion sensors.” Ariadne pushes into the room, closing and locking the door behind her. "We’re not greatly concerned, but I need to keep eyes on you, at least until the nature of the threat has been determined."

“No. No, no, no. No.”

Eames calls out through the open door of the bedroom. “Still not sure that's how that—”

Arthur swings around to point a belligerent finger at him. "No." He doesn't care how sexy Eames looks, lounging naked in his bed with the covers only barely covering his glory. Not if he's going to take her side on this.

Eames sits up further, causing the blankets shift.

Arthur whimpers.

"She could watch." Eames shrugs.

Arthur stalks back to the bedroom so that his glare can be appreciated with maximum effect. "Are you crazy? Do you realize what kind of HR nightmare that would be?"

Ariadne, following into the room, raises her hand. "Okay, um. Ew, though."

Eames shoots her a teasing grin. "What? Don't I do it for you, sugarplum? You're breaking my heart."

"You're not my type."

"I'm everyone's type."

Arthur flops back onto the bed, banging his head on Eames's ankle. "Ow. You're really not. She's in love with Robert."

Ariadne squeaks, hands fluttering “What? No. I—”

“Fischer? Your vice president?” Eames hums in consideration. “Yeah, he's fit, I suppose. You could do worse.”

Ariadne pokes Arthur in the knee. It kind of hurts. She has sharp, narrow fingers and the power of embarrassment giving her strength. “How did you know? Arthur. Oh god, do you think _he_ knows?”

He lets the glee show on his face. Revenge is petty, but it’s sweet. “You’re pretty obvious, yeah. And then that time you ran into a door basically cemented it.”

“Omigod, does _Cobb_ know?”

“Of course. Why do you think you’re always on my detail and never Robert’s?”

“This is it. The end. My life is over. I’ll have to move to Canada. Learn to speak weird French and drink milk from a bag.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and snuggles back against Eames’s leg. “Relax.”

“How can you say that? This is the worst thing ever. I can’t—” She falls silent mid-tirade. Arthur is a little concerned she might have actually keeled over until he sits up and sees her having a conversation with her earpiece and mic. “Here. Yes. What—really? Hmmph. He’s not going to like hearing that. No, no, everything’s fine. Copy that.” She turns back to them with bright eyes and a sheepish smile. Arthur has a bad feeling about that look.

“What am I not going to like hearing?”

“Well…”

“Ari.”

“Turns out, this was all a false alarm.”

“What?”

“Something about the British Prime Minister’s dog getting loose. And setting off one of the sensors.”

_“What?”_

“But I guess that means you can, um, go back to what you were doing, now.”

Eames falls onto his side, laughing. The bastard.

 


	7. Like The Way You Think

Arthur looks at Eames—mostly naked and eyes bright with cheer, stretched out on Arthur’s bed as if he belongs there. “Ari. Out.” He shucks his pants before the words are even out of his mouth.

Ariadne lets off an indignant squawk, followed by the sounds of her scurrying from the suite. Arthur doesn’t bother to look. He’s busy.

Eames watches with lazy appreciation as he crawls onto the bed and stalks across the mattress on his knees until he’s looming over Eames. “You look a little too relaxed for what I have in mind.”

“And what is that? Tell me what you want.”

“I—” Arthur blushes. He’s in bed with the man of his dreams, naked dick all but poking him in the eye, and Arthur fucking blushes at the thought of telling Eames all of the filthy thoughts racing through his mind.

“Easy, now,” Eames coos, reaching up to smooth the back of his hand down Arthur’s belly. “You can show me, if that’s easier.”

Right. Okay. That sounds… not so bad. Arthur considers his approach for a second. He doesn’t want to come off as graceless or awkward when he’d much rather impress Eames by looking sexy and confident. But, ultimately, his hormones push self-consciousness out the window. Eames is here, and still wants to sleep with him despite certain setbacks. So, it stands to reason that Eames finds him more than just a little bit desirable.

Arthur can definitely work with that.

He grabs the headboard for balance and carefully slings a leg over the breadth of Eames’s shoulders. It’s a bit of a stretch, but well-worth the strain in his thighs for the way Eames’s eyes darken with heated anticipation.

“I like the way you think, love,” Eames says, cupping his hands around Arthur’s hips and helping him settle into position. And then he nuzzles into Arthur’s crotch, petting his own face with Arthur’s dick like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

Arthur gasps at the tickle-rasp of beard hair on his most sensitive skin—and all his previous eagerness comes screaming back to full force. He stares down, hardly daring to blink, as Eames parts those beautiful, ridiculous lips and lightly mouths at the head of his cock. He can’t tell if it’s the sight or the sensation that makes his toes curl and his knees quiver. But it’s definitely the wet heat, as Eames uses his tongue to guide the head fully into his mouth, that makes Arthur cry out, high and loud. Eames glances up at him with approving eyes but quickly focuses back on his task, lashes drifting closed in an expression of utter contentment as he sucks Arthur in.

Emboldened by that look, he gently rocks his hips. He’s so hypnotized by the feel of his cock gliding along the smooth cradle of Eames’s tongue that he ignores the chill as Eames’s warm hands leave his hips. Or the wiggle, shuffle as Eames paws around the bed. He just thrusts a little deeper, careful not to overstep boundaries but just too damn desperate for more of that mind-blowing sensation to be a _complete_ gentleman about it.

He _does_ pay attention when a firm hand grabs his ass, two slick fingers of the other hand diving between his cheeks to push deep inside. “Fuck, yes.” He shoves back into those fingers, then forward into Eames’s mouth. The pleasure builds fast and hard. “Oh, god, I’m gonna come.”

Eames pulls his mouth off with a gasp. “No, not yet. I’m enjoying the feel of you too much. All snug and hot. Sloppy wet, getting ready for me to split you wide”

Arthur’s answering moan is _obscene_ , filling the room as he screws down onto Eames’s fingers with twice as much determination.

“Arthur,” Eames growls, “I said no. You don’t get to come yet.” And then he tugs at Arthur’s rim like the contrary son of a bitch he is, teasing him with a wider stretch. Arthur curses and wraps a hand around the base of his cock, catching himself on the edge of completion. His reward is a third finger and a messy lick across the tip of his dick.

He squeezes harder.

“That’s right. So good. You love being good for me, don’t you Arthur?” Eames croons against his shaft, beard stroking and scratching with every word in tiny caresses that dangerously fan the flames of Arthur’s arousal. He tries to move away from the touch, only to whimper when Eames’s fingers nudge his prostate.

“Eames.” Now. It has to be now. “ _Please_.”

“Yeah,” Eames pants, looking as wrecked as Arthur feels. “Come on. C’mere.” He withdraws his fingers and shoves at Arthur’s hips until he gets with the program and shimmies back down Eames’s torso. With Eames reaching down to guide him, he sits back on the thick prod against his hole and takes the first inch or two before his body clamps down in protest. Eames jerks and bites out a curse, but Arthur is too preoccupied to pay him much mind.

Eames feels so good inside of him. So hard and wonderfully thick. Demanding space where Arthur is closed and unyielding. It’s almost too much, but Arthur can’t remember the last time anything has ever felt this good. Because—yeah—it’s definitely been a long time, made evident by the tense burn of pain as his body struggles to stretch around the veritable steel pole in his ass.

Eames groans, pressing upward with his hips. “So tight. Fuck, love. You gotta let me in.” He runs his hands up and down Arthur’s thighs and fucks up into him, slowly but inexorably. “There you go. Been too long since someone touched you here, hasn’t it? Or maybe you’ve just been waiting for me. Waiting for my cock in your sweet, hot arse.” Eames gets all the way in with a gusty sigh, grinding up against Arthur’s ass as if he could find a way to fit even more of himself inside, and it feels so full and so delicious that Arthur has to squeeze down on his own cock again to stop himself from coming.

Eames watches with wicked approval. “Yeah, that’s right. Not yet. You don’t get to come yet. Just keep being good for me. Next time we’ll—fuck—get you a cock ring. So you can relax while I open up your needy hole. Fuck you for hours. Maybe—unh—maybe see how many times I can come in you. Leave you all filthy and soaking wet and needy. Ready for any time I wanna put my cock back in you. Plug you up for the night, just so I can open you up the next morning and slide right in. How’s that sound, hm?” He grinds up with a sinuous curl that strokes right along Arthur’s prostate, again and again until Arthur mewls and clutches desperately at the base of his cock. “Don’t you dare come. Or I’ll just have to keep fucking you until you’re hard again.” He punctuates that threat by snapping his hips up, shoving himself deep with every thrust.

“Oh my god,” Arthur moans and rolls his hips back.

“That’s right. Show me how much you love it.”

And Arthur does. He _really_ does, riding Eames like a man possessed, never releasing the rigid hold on his dick because he knows that, the second he does, he’ll lose it completely. So, instead, he squeezes until it almost hurts, his other hand clawing at the bed covers beside Eames’s head. His whole world narrows down to those three points—his two hands, locked in position, and the aching knot of pleasure where he fucks himself down onto Eames, more and more and _Jesus Christ_ more. Until it becomes too much. Too good. The need to come swells high and hot, pushing against the boundaries of his control, making him whimper in sweet agony.

“Stay with me, Arthur,” Eames hisses, grabbing his hips with demanding hands. And then he’s taking over, thrusting up into him. Faster. Harder. Leaving no room inside of Arthur for trivial things like thinking or breathing. The constant push, push, push is going to drive him insane before Eames is done with him. And Arthur’s entire body is shaking. Eyes clenched shut. Mouth slack. He doesn’t even know what noises he’s making anymore. All his focus is on the building pressure inside him, the screaming inferno of bliss that’s going to tear him apart into shattered, indescribable pieces.

And then he hears Eames cry out.

“Now, Arthur. _Now_.”

Arthur gasps and releases the stranglehold on his cock. He doesn’t even have time to get a stroke in before he’s coming all over his hand, all over Eames. Every muscle in his body seizes, locking down tight as Eames shoves in one more time, deep and pulsing, and holds himself there like he wants to crawl inside Arthur and never leave. Which would be hot as fuck if Arthur weren’t too busy dying. There’s a muted roar in his ears that definitely has to be his brain shutting down. He can’t breathe. His body is out of control, quivering and twitching while his aching balls empty out a seeming lifetime of come between them until he’s wrung dry, exhausted and numb.

“Holy shit.” He sags forward and just keeps on falling until he lands in a belly-flop on top of Eames’s heaving chest. He probably would have rolled right off except Eames instantly wraps him in a sweaty embrace, making it clear that Arthur won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

Which—yeah. Good. Perfect. Because—sticky, nasty mess notwithstanding—Arthur is starting to think there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Just gimme a coupl’a minutes, love,” Eames mumbles into his hair, “you can have a go at my bum.”

Arthur smiles and snuggles his face in under Eames’s chin. “You say the sweetest things.”

 


End file.
